


A Fragment Of Time

by DaisukiRose



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Caporegime Frank, Death of a Parent, Foster Care, Mob Boss Frank, Mob Boss Frank Sr., Multi, Murder, Murderers, Raid Gone Wrong, Revenge Era Frank Iero, Shock, Teen Frank Iero, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8557903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisukiRose/pseuds/DaisukiRose
Summary: Italian Mob AU. Frank Iero has grown up in the family business. He’s sat in on more drug trades and business meetings than he can count, learned to shoot to kill by age 7, and has helped his father staff the largest section of the Italian mob in New Jersey since his tenth birthday. Everything changes on a raid gone wrong – Frank’s father is shot, his life it thrown up in the air, and who is there to catch it but New Jersey’s finest? When 16 year old drug lords are processed through the foster care system, what happens?





	1. Tengo Il Mio Impero Vivo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thePetetoherPatrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thePetetoherPatrick/gifts).



> Hello! It is I, your faithful Mika, back at you with another story I don't have time to write while also finishing Twin Skeletons and finishing high school (or secondary school or college or whatever you wanna call it)! This story is kind of writing itself - I had some mint chocolate chip ice cream at like super late o'clock and I was watching The Godfather and yeah. This happened. Whoops.E Enjoy. Pls don't kill me for how many people I may kill in this. Almost all mob members are based off of real names of real mob people.
> 
> GIFTED TO ThePetetoherPatrick bc it's more or less their fault I even continued to write on here, so yeah. Hi. :)

At 16 years old, most other kids were sharing scandalous times in the backseat of their car, laughing about smoking weed, complaining about high school and the looming shape of University that their mothers were pushing them towards. Frank Iero? Not so much. Frank Iero was the youngest caporegime that the New Jersey faction of the Italian Mafia had ever seen, most powerful in his family except for maybe his father and his uncle Sammy. He had twenty-three soldiers and maybe 50 associates under him, all ready to give their life for him at any second. A life like his wasn’t earned, Frank thought as he lay on his bed in a fortified house in the middle of his father’s territory, no, you had to be born into it as well as groomed for it. A king wasn’t born, he was made, sculpted from birth. Frank was next in line to be the Godfather of the Iero Mafia, il padrino della fazione Iero, and it was a delicious feeling. 

He grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the bedside table, lighting one up and bringing it to his lips almost subconsciously while staring out the window, watching as his father and a few of his uncles had a chat with a man Frank couldn’t recognize on the front lawn. He was curious, he couldn’t deny that, but last time he’d walked into his father’s business without express permission, he was slapped around and not let out of the house for a week. He’d learned to keep his nose where it belonged, even as his father’s #1 caporegime. He took a drag off of his cigarette, attempting to blow smoke rings as he watched his father shake the unknown man’s hand and take three steps back, hands clasped behind him. The other man nodded, sliding into a waiting black car and driving away before Frank’s father turned and came back indoors. 

Blowing smoke rings was only interesting for so long. Frank had quickly grown bored, sucking down the last half-inch of his cigarette and wandering out of his room. “Ah, Frank, mio figlio! Just who I wanted to see!” Tony Iero, full name Frank Anthony Iero, was a man to be feared. His naturally curly hair was cut short, hazel eyes warm but with a traitorous glint in their depths. His impeccably pressed suit would be so out of place if it weren’t worn by him and his air of commanding, tailored to fit his slim body in a way that everyone should envy. Frank had to admit, his father embodied the typical gangster mob boss a little too emphatically. “We’re calling a meeting, I’ve got big news! It sounds like we found the Lucchese family’s weak spot after all, eh, bambino? We’ll begin as soon as all your uncles get here. Go get dressed, ya? You’re dressed like a hood rat. After the meeting, we’ll see about talking to Santilli about you meeting his daughter, ya? Gotta get my son a good wife sometime.” With a swift pat to the face, Tony Iero was off, back to organize the conference room to fit every one of Frank’s uncles.

While grousing about putting on a suit in his own home as well as the way his father didn’t give him a chance to speak, Frank began to contemplate his uncles. He wasn’t related to any of them, really. If he didn’t look a spitting image of his father, he would have questioned his relations to the whole family at all. He was an Iero, though, and an Iero was the king wherever he went. That was all that was important. 

Forty-five minutes later, Frank was sat to the left of his father at the huge table in the Iero house meeting room. He’d been paying half attention to what was being said, nothing imperative had been announced yet so he wasn’t expected to say anything. Small sums of money were paid by local businessmen for the Iero family to protect them from the Lucchese mafia, one associate had been killed for wandering into D’Amato turf, nothing new, nothing out of the normal. What caught his eye, however, was the girl sitting next to Tony Santilli, her long hair pulled back in a dangerous looking ponytail. She didn’t belong here – Women were kept out of the meetings as a general rule. However, his father, his uncles, and all the other caporegimes and soldatos overlooked her, not paying her attendance any heed. This must be the girl his father had mentioned setting him up with! He’d never met Jamia Santilli before, but the stories he’d heard about her aptness for catching conversation clearly held no light to her true abilities. Her green-hazel eyes flashed as she scanned the faces of the men talking around her, clearly categorizing every bit of information that hey said for future use. Frank already liked her.

“Boss, I found the Lucchese hideout.” James Pistone spoke up out of the blue, the usually quiet man looking like he was about to burst with excitement. Just the Lucchese name made Frank drag his eyes away from the Santilli girl, trying to school the look of astonishment that definitely rose over his face.

“Did you, James?” Tony asked, that glint coming back into his eyes. “What do we know?”

“Magliotti, my associate from Boston? He said he knew a guy who knew someone from the Lucchese family, so we went ta check it out. Come to looking, and Luigi dannazione Lucchese comes walking out. The boss’s son! He just gets into a car and leaves. It’s out in the open, we could make it easy.”

“Good work, James.” Tony smiled appraisingly. “We’ll bust in there tomorrow morning and say hi to our good friend John, yeah? I doubt he’ll be up for an early morning visit.”

A general noise of assent rose from the table. “Frank, you’ll accompany me this time, yeah? I miss having you out on visits like that.”

“Of course.” Frank replied without hesitation. “I’ll be ready.”

“Good boy!” His father laughed, slapping Frank on the shoulder and sending him an approving smile. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Frank, mio figlio, this is Santilli’s daughter, the one I was telling you about?” Tony Iero brought the girl up to Frank, grinning like a madman. “This is Jamia, why don’t you two talk for awhile?”

He shot his son a conspiratorial smile before returning to the large mass of uncles still at the table. “Sorry about Boss,” Frank said awkwardly, scratching at one of the tattoos he’d convinced his father to let him have, this one a scorpion on his neck. “He’s a little much sometimes,”

“I’m used to it. I was raised around it, you know?” She said noncommittally, eyes assessing Frank. “It’s not a big deal anymore, I was promised to that Giuseppe boy last week. I’m a commodity.”

“You’ve gotta be so much more than that!” Frank protested, pulling at the vest of his suit out of habit. “I saw how you watched everyone at that table, you want into the family. Like, as a caporegime or something.”

“That’d be nice, yeah, but I’m not that lucky,” She said, finally dragging her eyes to Franks’ face. “The best I can do is marry one, I guess. You know, all in all, you’re not the worst looking bambino I’ve been promised to.”

Frank blushed like crazy from the straightforward way Jamia talked. She laid everything out bare, take it or leave it, and Frank admired that about her. “Thanks, I guess?” He asked, chewing on the lip ring that he was probably not supposed to have.

“So… You’re already a capo, yeah?” She asked casually, hands in hidden pockets n her skirt.

“Yeah, Dad - I mean, Boss – gave me the position over the summer.” He admitted. “He figured I’m old enough to be a part of the family now, a real made man.”

“That’s pretty cool,” She said. There was silence between them for a minute. “Look, I don’t know about you, but this is boring. We can’t even hear anything they’re saying over here. I say, either we go and join them, or you and I go off and… get to know eachother better.”

Frank’s eyes widened almost imperceptible before he schooled himself back into his role as aloof caporegime. “Of course,” He said, giving her his best smile and offering her an arm, to which she snorted and batted it away.

Ten minutes later, Frank was wondering how the hell someone as unassuming as Jamia had so many weapons underneath a knee-length dress. He had to admit, though, it was kind of a turn-on. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frank couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a little nervous the next morning. Jamia and her father had left late the night before, with Jamia turning to send a smile at Frank as she stepped into her father’s car. “I hope to see you again, Frank,” She called as the door shut.

“Oho!” Tony Iero called once the Santillis had started to drive away. “You think you like her? Yes? It’d be good for the family, bambino.” 

“I do like her, yeah,” Frank admitted, smiling. “What’s good for the family’s good for me.”

When morning finally came, he got up and ate with his father and a few other men that had stayed as usual before disappearing upstairs to ready for the morning’s events. Frank stood in front of his bureau, the doors open in front of him, staring at the suits he owned. He sighed – Grousing about which to wear wouldn’t do him any good. He settled on a black one with a front zipper pocket and a hidden inside pocket, bulky in the shoulders and narrow at the waist yet still managing to look flattering, and a plain white shirt with a black tie. He may have been an idiot, but he at least would be a well dressed idiot. His father had drilled it through his head at a young age. “You can never be overeducated or overdressed, bambino,” his father had said, ruffling young Franks’ hair. “It’s better to be smart and look smart than be stupid and look stupid.”

Frank tucked a 9 mm pistol into the inner pocket of his coat, a knife into his sleeve, another into his pant leg almost reflexively. He’d been trained how to wear his weapons since he was 12, it was a second nature at this point. He almost didn’t register what he was doing as he tucked one more pistol into the back of his pants. 

Walking down the stairs to meet his father, Frank was vividly aware of the other caporegimes watching him. He was the Boss’ son, he had to be perfect. Back straight, swagger in his walk, hair definitely against code (he had this sort of deflated Mohawk thing going, with the sides bleached and the top dyed black), but all in all, he was an embodiment of what a caporegime should look like. Maybe about 20 years younger than the rest, but that wasn’t mentioned. “Ah, Frank!” His father’s loud, booming voice echoed across the commons as Frank finally reached the floor. “Ready, bambino?”

“Yes, Boss.” Frank said, smoothing his lapels. 

“Good boy,” His father grinned. “To the cars, everyone!”

Frank slid into the passenger-side backseat of his father’s bulletproof Cadillac, his father getting in the driver’s side backseat. He nodded at the man in front of them, who started the engine and took off down the Iero’s long driveway. Frank couldn’t shake a bad feeling in his stomach. He had called his soldatos and they had called his associates, so he had backup. _It’s just a raid,_ he thought. _Why the hell am I so jumpy?_

The cars pulled up outside a normal looking house, not much unlike Frank’s own. His father stilled, signaling to the car behind his. Pistone stepped out of the car, straightening his suit and adjusting his trilby. Three other men followed him from both his car and the car behind his. They began the quiet walk to the house when four men stepped out, each of them openly armed. Frank rolled down his window, holding a pistol through the crack as he knew all the other cars were doing. “Good boy,” his father whispered.

Frank kept his eyes trained on the men interrogating the other caporegime. At this distance, he could get a shot off and they’d be dead before they knew what hit them. The three men behind what appeared to be a high-ranking Lucchese all had their weapons drawn, ready to kill Pistone and his men at a moment’s notice. However, they didn’t know the whole della fazione Iero was waiting in the black cars in front of them. They had no clue every one of them had at least three gunmen trained on him. 

A shot went off. Frank couldn’t pinpoint who it was who shot, but Pistone’s flanking man on his right dropped to the ground, and that was the moment all hell broke loose. “Prendete le armi!” Tony Iero screamed, grabbing a pistol out of his coat and stepping out of the car. Frank had dropped two of Lucchese’s men where they stood, but scores more were pouring out of the house. 

Frank moved forwards, shooting almost reflexively as he cleared a path to the house. The Lucchese’s boss wouldn’t be outside in this weather, he decided. A bullet storm with a 75% chance of death? No weather for a boss. Tony Iero was at his son’s back, shooting anyone that tried to catch them from behind. They made it to the house easier than he had planned. Once in the door, the sounds of shooting were muffled by the thick walls, the oak doors pulled shut behind them. “Good job, mio figlio,” Tony whispered, scanning the room for any threat to him or his son. “I think we’re oka-“

And that’s when another shot went off. Frank’s head whipped up to the top landing as his father fell behind him, clutching his chest. Frank saw a young man trying to run away, trying to stay hidden behind the banister, and took his shot. The bang went off, the man dropped. “Luigi’s down!” he heard a scream, and men flooded the room. Frank had the pretense of mind to admire his shot for a second – Even with the banisters in the way, he’d been dead on.

Returning to the present, Frank screamed, reaching into his waistband to grab his other pistol as the men advanced on him. He kept count of the men he dropped. It was easier than focusing on the situation at hand, just numbers. He stood over his father, just counting. _One, two, three, four… fivesix_ He ducked behind a table to reload, popping back up and dropping another six men. _That’s 12. This is just like target practice. 13._

It only took a fragment of time to change everything. Milliseconds mattered. Frank was lining up to shoot his 14th target when his bullet casing lodged in the chamber, rendering him incapacitated for a moment. All he had to do was jack it back and send the casing flying, but that took a valuable second of his time. Just as he had the casing out, he heard a bang and felt a white-hot heat in his shoulder. He got the shot off, dropping man number 14 and falling to the ground just as Giuseppe, Santilli, and Maglioli entered the room with guns blazing. “Sparagli!” Frank screamed as loud as he could. “Sparagli la cazzo grasso!” 

He looked around, adrenaline fueling his system as he shot number 15 and turned to his father. “Boss, boss, you with me?” His voice was rough, shot from screaming and adrenaline. “Dad? Tony, wake the fuck up, we need you here.” He pulled his father’s suit away from his chest just as his eyes opened, a faint, ghostly smile on his lips

“You’re shot,” His father noted, concern flicking over his glazed eyes. “You should… get out, bambino.”

“No, dad, look at me. Boss, look… Dannazione, padre!” He screamed, a hand over his father’s wound. “Merda, merda, merda, merda, we’ll get you out of here, okay? Keep your eyes on me, it’ll all be alright.”

“No, son,” Tony Iero smiled softly. “Just… Frank, tengo il mio impero vivo. Non lasciate morire con me.” He coughed, thick blood falling over his lips. 

“Padre!” Frank yelled in his father’s face. “There’s no death to avenge! There’s no empire to rule without you, you’re the motherfucking king of Jersey, you’re gonna be fine!”

“No, mi bambino, keep… keep the Iero family alive. Te… te amo…” Tony coughed again before he seized up, body wracked with spasms. His head lolled in his son’s lap, trilby hat knocked off, salt and pepper hair falling back.

“Padre... Padre no. Mi vendicherò la tua morte.” Frank whispered as his father’s eyes glassed over. “Dannazione! Mi vendicherò la tua morte.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough translations :)
> 
> “Fuck” Cazzo, fanculo  
> “Fuck you” Vaffanculo  
> “Shit” Merda  
> “Damn” or “God Damn It” dannazione  
> “I’ll never cooperate. You can’t make me.” Non potrò mai collaborare. Non puoi fare.  
> “Grab the guns!” Prendete le armi!  
> “Shoot him!” Sparagli!  
> “Father… father no. I will avenge your death.” Padre ... Padre no. Mi vendicherò la tua morte.  
> “Get off me, you fat fuck!” Scendere me, cazzo grasso!  
> “Son... Keep my empire alive. Don't let it die with me.” Son ... tengo il mio impero vivo. Non lasciate morire con me.


	2. Non Potrò Mai Collaborare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means: I will never cooperate

Frank held his father’s body through the firefight. In the back of his mind, he was amazed that neither of them got shot in the exchange. When the gunshots ceased, the room was filled with the ragged breathing of Santilli and Giuseppe. Maglioli’s body lay at their feet, covered in blood just like the others. “Frank?” Santilli turned to the boy, worry plastered on his face. “Frank, you’re shot, come on boss, we gotta-“ 

“I’m not your fanculo boss!” He screamed. “Tony Iero is the boss, I’m just a caporegime! Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Frank, we gotta-“ Sirens wailed in the distance. “Boy, look at me, we gotta get you out of here. Your father’s body will be returned to us, okay? You gotta be looked at.”

“Go.” Frank said, not taking his eyes off of his father’s pale face. “Go, don’t get caught. Get back to the house, tell Jamia I’m sorry, I’ll be back when I can.” There was a look of confusion on the two men’s faces. “I said go, dammit!” He threw his pistol at Santilli’s head, who effortlessly dodged the shoddy throw and nodded at Giuseppe to leave. “Make my driver leave, but leave me the car.”

“We’ll see you at home, bambino.” Santilli said sadly as he left. 

Frank heard the sound of tires on the gravel as all but his own car left. The sirens continually got louder as they screamed to the Lucchese residence. _They better bring a few dozen hearses,_ Frank thought coldly. _They’re gonna need ‘em._

“NJPD!” He heard someone yell as the front door was booted open. “Hands where we can see them!”

Frank, however, was not one to cooperate. He sat by his father’s body, adrenaline slowly wearing off so he could start to feel the gunshot to his shoulder. “You!” A cop shouted, pistol pointed at Frank. “Hands up!”

“Whaddya gonna do, shoot me again?” Frank let out a hollow laugh. “Kill me, you’ve got a war on your hands, buddy.”

“Hands up or I will shoot!”

“Kill me right on top of my father, huh?” Frank said snarkily. “Non potrò mai collaborare. Non puoi fare.”

“Italian mafia,” Someone whispered from behind the man Frank had named Officer McDick. “This kid’s an Iero.”

Frank kept his mouth shut. He could almost hear his father’s words. “Omertà,” His father would say. “Don’t talk to authorities. Be quiet until Giuseppe can come for you, he’s a lawyer.”

So Frank did just that. He wouldn’t give them any useful information, his name, his rank in the family (which he wasn’t entirely sure of, but Santilli had been the rightful underboss and he’d called Frank boss), nothing until Giuseppe arrived if he was hauled off to the precinct. “Look, kid, you said this is your dad, yeah? You got a mom?”

Shit. He had said that this was his father. “Vaffanculo.” Frank spat. 

“James, look, the kid’s dad just died, give him space.” The cadet behind Officer McDick said. “Just chill ou-“

“Kid, were you hit?” Officer James McDick said, worry creeping into his voice. “He’s been shot. Mike, radio for an EMT team, this kid’s bleeding.”

Frank didn’t speak, but he did think about grabbing his father’s sidearm and shooting them both. He didn’t do it, but he thought about it. “We need an EMT squad in here,” Cadet Mike said into his radio. “We’ve got evidence this was an Iero hit. One survivor on the inside, at least 17 bodies.”

“You couldn’t have done this hit on your own, kid, who are you with?” Officer McDick asked. “Where’s your family? Where’s your uncles?”

“Fucking your mum,” Frank spat, turning to look at Officer McDick, whose name badge read Lt. Moore. Frank thinks he’ll stick with Officer McDick. 

Officer McDick sighed, shaking his head. “Just sit tight, the EMT squad will be here in a second.”

When the EMT squad arrived to the angry standoff of their lieutenant and the moody teenage Don of the Iero faction, they didn’t know what to do. The man in charge was a pudgy, balding man that Frank distantly wondered how he’d ever passed the physical. “Okay, kid,” the EMT said, dropping down to be on Frank’s level. “I’m just gonna…” He reached out, touching Frank’s non-shot shoulder tentatively.

“Scendere me, cazzo grasso!” Frank screamed, reaching for his father’s pistol and turning it on the EMT. “Keep your fat ass and your dirty hands the hell away from me, or so help me God, I will shoot you.”

“Kid, look, we’re just trying to-“ Officer McDick tried again.

“Aah!” Frank shushed the lieutenant, turning his pistol on him. “Shut up! Just walk away!”

Frank felt a sting in the back of his neck, reached around with his free hand to touch it and felt the hilt of a dart. They’d tranquilized him! They’d tranquilized him like an animal! “Fuck you!” He spat, vision going blurry. “Fuck you and your… your…”

Frank fell to the floor and into a pool of his and his father’s blood, eyes rolling back in his head as his hair was coated with a sticky red. The last thing he remembered were boots advancing on him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frank woke up in a bright white room, head pounding. One hand was in a sling, the other was handcuffed to the side of the bed. He pulled at the handcuff while his eyes adjusted to the bright light, biting his lip so as not to scream at the pain that shot through his left side. Whoever had handcuffed him had definitely not been messing around, either that, or he was just weak from the day’s events. He was effectively neutralized. This was embarrassing. Frank Thomas Anthony Iero, new Don of the Iero family, was handcuffed to a bed in New Jersey Municipal.

“Ah!” A friendly-faced doctor walked up, smiling at Frank happily. She had a clipboard in her hand, the paper on it mostly blank. “Our John Doe is awake!”

“Cazzo,” He whispered in between coughs. “I need… Giuseppe.”

“Okay, honey, we’ll find Giuseppe for you. Can we have a full name?” She asked.

“Giusepppe DiAngelo.” Frank tried to move to sit up and ended up letting out a very degrading noise when neither of his arms could cooperate. “’m not talking without Giuseppe.” He coughed again. His throat was dry.

“Okay, we’ll get you Giuseppe.” She said. “You need water?”

Frank tried to give her a look that would read as “No duh, woman,” but probably came out more pleading than commanding. She smiled softly, reaching to a table outside of Frank’s view and brought back some water and a straw. “Drink up,” She said, offering him the straw, and he rolled his eyes. This was humiliating.

He did, however, drink the water, and it was the best damn water he’d had in the history of ever. He sighed when it touched his throat, leaning back on the bed and drawing in a painful breath. “Alright, what’s your name, honey?” Frank sent her the most powerful glare he possibly could. “Okay, okay, we’ll get this Giuseppe first. Who is he to you?” Frank was silent again, choosing to ignore her and shut his eyes. “Okay,” She said. “Fine.” With that, she got up and walked out of the room.

Now, Frank wasn’t very familiar with hospitals, especially this one. His family controlled a hospital on the other side of the city, but he had probably been transported to the closest one once tranquilized, and that was in Lucchese turf. He wasn’t at home here, he wasn’t safe here. The Lucchese family had other things to worry about right now, though, besides a 16 year old member of the Iero faction in one of their hospitals. Like, for instance, how their don and underboss were probably dead. But, as he was thinking, Frank wasn’t very familiar with hospitals. He was pretty sure that whatever that doctor had done was not official protocol. He was pretty sure she was supposed to offer him pain drugs, seeing as he had been shot, or explain where he was and what the hell had happened. 

Not that he was expecting any answers from her. He was found in the center of a pile of bodies, after all. That was more than a little worrisome if you weren’t in the mafia. 

Frank also didn’t expect to be left totally alone until Giuseppe arrived, but he was. Almost two hours later, he had resorted to counting the specks of blue in each ceiling tile when the doctor opened his door again. “Giuseppe DiAngelo is here,” She said softly. 

Frank nodded at her, and she retreated into the hallway. A moment later, Giuseppe opened the door and pretended to gasp when he saw Frank. The doctor didn’t know he’d seen him just hours before, after all. “Bambino!” Giuseppe cried. “What happened?”

Frank shot a glare at the doctor. “I want her out.” 

With the combined force of Giuseppe and Frank’s glares, the doctor smiled meekly and exited the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Giuseppe checked the door out of habit before turning to Frank. “How much have you told them?” Giuseppe asked lowly.

“Nothing!” Frank swore. “They don’t even know my name.”

“Good, you remembered omertà.” Giuseppe sighed, relieved.

“Vaffanculo,” Frank said almost playfully, a smirk at his lips. “I was born into omertà.”

“True. What are we telling them?’

“I don’t fucking know, you’re my lawyer!” Frank sighed, throwing his head melodramatically despite the pain coursing through his shoulder.

“Okay then, what do you need right now?”

“To go home, bury my father, get some blow, and not necessarily in that order.” Frank sighed. “They won’t give me any fuckin’ drugs, my arm feels like it’s gonna fall off.”

“There’s drugs in the IV, bambino,” Giuseppe laughed.

“Not good enough drugs,” Frank muttered darkly.

“We can get you transferred to our hospital and take you home, but we’re gonna have to give them some information.” Giuseppe mused. “They’re gonna want to know your name.”

“Anthony Thomas.” Frank decided quickly, and Giuseppe laughed. “What? It works, and I won’t forget it.”

“Okay, boss,” Giuseppe said, chuckling. He opened the door, calling the doctor back in.

“My name is Anthony Thomas, and I want to be transferred.” Frank said with as much conviction as he could muster.

“Okay, Anthony,” The doctor said, smiling brightly as she scribbled on her clipboard. “Will you spell that for me?”

“Sure,” Frank said coolly. “V-A-F-F-A-N-C-U-L-O.”

“Not nice, Anthony.” Giuseppe admonished, giving Frank a glare. “It’s spelled as it sounds, Anthony Thomas.”

“Okay, and we’ll need your birthday?” She asked.

“Halloween, 19--. October 31st.” He recited.

“Okay, darling, we’ll get you set up to be transferred. Where do you want to go?” She asked. 

“The other hospital,” He said. “Saint Angelo’s. It’s closer to home.”

“O-okay.” She said, stumbling as she heard the name. “I’m not sure if it’s safe to transport you, that’s near a gang war, and they might shoo-“

“They wouldn’t fuckin’ shoot an ambulance.” Frank groused. God, did she think they were terrorists?

“Okay, if you say so, sir. We’ll get you transferred right away, sir.” Looking flustered, she left the room quickly, door almost hitting her heels.

Giuseppe laughed quietly. “You should have been nicer,” he admonished, which didn’t work with the way he was smiling.

“No point,” Frank said. “I’m leaving here soon anyways.”

“Anthony?” The doctor poked her head back inside. “You’re only 16, correct?”

“Yeah?” Frank sat up, trying to posture as intimidating in a hospital bed. “What’s your point?”

“Do you have any living family?” 

Did he? His mother died in childbirth (or so he was told), his father was shot this morning, none of his uncles were related to him… He supposed he was good and orphaned. “So what if I don’t?” He said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice.

“If you don’t have any family to be reassigned to, we’ll have to place you with a family.” She said quietly.

“Fuck that!” Frank yelled, waving his hand in the air. “Foster care? Dannazione! Giuseppe, do something!”

“I… I can appeal to be your guardian,” Giuseppe mused. 

“You can’t, sir. We had a background check done when Anthony called on you, you’re a convicted felon. Felons can’t be foster parents.”

“Fanculo!” Frank yelled, slamming his hand on the bed. “Giuseppe, can-“

“No, bambino,” Giuseppe appeared to be thinking. “There’s none of us.”

“Fanculo! Merde! Giuseppe, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Frank raged, his blood pressure gauge rising and beeping dangerously. “There’s got to be one of you bastards who can-“

“I’m sorry, Fr-Anthony.” Giuseppe said, bowing his head. “I’ll try to figure something out, but in the meantime, I think you should do what she says.”

Frank had run out of cuss words to accurately express his feelings towards the world at the moment and just fell back on the bed. “Non puoi fare.” He said flatly.

“I can make you,” Giuseppe said. “So can she. You’re ward of the state now.”

“But I’m the motherfu- Doctor, could Giuseppe and I have a word?” Frank asked.

“Of course, Anthony.” She left the room again, and Frank continued yelling.

“I’m the new fucking Don, Giuseppe! This is fucking ridiculous! I’m the king of this shithole, they can’t just fucking take me from my empire!” He pulled at his hair with his one good arm. “Boss said to keep the empire alive, how am I supposed to do that living with some blue-collar fucks in the middle of nowhere?”

“I don’t know, bambino,” Giuseppe admitted. “You could appoint a board of rulers until you get out.”

“You make it sound like fucking jail.” He groused. “I’d rather go to jail. You got a camera on you?” Giuseppe nodded. “Okay, record this. Hi, fuckers, it’s your Don. I’ve gotta deal with legal bullshit until I’m an adult, so I’m leaving you with this. I want Giuseppe DiAngelo, Tony Santilli, and James Dumas as your temporary trio of leading underbosses, okay? I’ll be back in two years and I’ll take over as Don then. This tape is in no way made under duress, I am filming this of my own free will. Okay. Don’t destroy my empire while I’m gone, tu cazzo grassos. So long and goodnight.” Frank nodded, and Giuseppe cut the feed. “Send that to everyone, even our associates.” Frank demanded. 

“Yes, Boss.” Giuseppe said, tucking his phone back into his inner pocket. “Anything else you need from me?”

“No, no, just… Pack up my things and deliver it to Saint Angelo’s, yeah? I don’t wanna have to bring Jersey’s finest to our humble abode.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Woot! I was gonna post this on Friday, but I'm early bc I couldn't wait Cx  
> Comments and kudos are the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins!  
> ROUGH TRANSLATIONS
> 
> “I’ll never cooperate. You can’t make me.” Non potrò mai collaborare. Non puoi fare.  
> “Fuck you” Vaffanculo  
> “Get off me, you fat fuck!” Scendere me, cazzo grasso!  
> “Fuck” Cazzo, fanculo  
> "Child" Bambino  
> "The mafia's code of silence" Omertà  
> “Shit” Merda  
> "tu cazzo grassos" You fat fuckers  
> ~xoxodaisukirose


	3. Smetterò Di Parlare Italiano Quando Si Smette Di Vestirsi Così Cattivo Gusto

Frank was transferred, but he was not allowed out of bed, and that was complete and utter bullshit. Laying inn a hospital bed in a different room, this one pale blue and grey, was no more fun than laying in the white hospital room. At least he sort of had control of this one. Well, Giuseppe, Santilli, and Dumas did. For the next two years, Frank had been reduced to nothing more than a poor, orphaned 16 year old boy. This hospital knew his name, though, and so he was put down as Frank Thomas on his paperwork. He’d asked, begged, pleaded to be put down as Frank Sinatra, but somehow, nobody found it as amusing as he did.

He liked to think of his situation as an undercover mission. He had to infiltrate the life of some normal fuck, pretend to be a tortured, normal fuck, and then get out and be the king. Easy, right?

Wrong. His belongings were delivered to the hospital as he had asked, stacked in neat cardboard in the corner of his room. “There’s no guns,” Giuseppe had said, causing Frank to swear. “We packed a few knives, a few throwing stars, but no guns.”

“What if I get shot at?” Frank asked, glaring. “I need my goddamn gun, Giuseppe.”

“We can’t, Frank,” Giuseppe sighed. “You won’t get shot at. You’ll be moving to Monroeville.” 

“Monroeville?!” Frank nearly screamed. “Dannazione, Giuseppe, you better be kidding me. That’s on the other side of the state!”

“Nope, I got told you’ll be in Monroeville,” Giuseppe nodded, as if finalizing it. “I’m sorry, bambino.”

Frank didn’t reply, instead settling for the moody huff as he threw himself back on the bed, doing his best not to scream out when his left shoulder hit the mattress. “When?” He asked, voice coming out thick and strangled.

“Tomorrow, probably.” Giuseppe said. “Whenever you get released from hospital.”

“Fanculo,” He swore. “Okay. I’ll uh… I’ll call you, then? While I’m out? You can tell me what’s happening?”

“Of course.” Giuseppe nodded. “I have to get back to the house now, Frank. Be relatively good for them, yeah?”

“Only if they deserve it.” He replied, giving Giuseppe a sort of three-finger salute and laying his head back on the pillow.

Life was, to put it bluntly, exceedingly shit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frank was assigned to a house two days later, discharged early because he had caused a commotion with one of the nurses. Who expected any less? He was 16, he was bored, and he really had a point, or so he thought: His dick was definitely not going to suck itself. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to gripe to his pretty young nurse about, but that thought hadn’t occurred to him at the moment. 

He now found himself in a taxi cab outside of a very normal looking house in a very normal looking neighbourhood, cursing the house silently until the driver told him to get out. Just as Frank st foot on the concrete, the front door of the house sprung open and out bustled a short woman with a round, smiling face. “You must be Frank!” she grinned. “I’m Donna Way, it’s so nice to meet you!”

“Il Way’s? Suona fottutamente stupido.” Frank muttered, more to the taxi driver, who he had already established spoke fluent Italian. He earned a snort at least, which was more than he’d gotten in a few days.

“Oh, does he speak English?” She half-whispered to the taxi driver.

“Trust me, ma’am,” The driver said, helping lift Frank’s boxes out of the trunk. “He speaks whatever the hell he wants to.”

“Oh, okay…” Donna looked disheartened for a moment before regaining composure. “Anyways! I’ll get my sons out here to help carry your stuff, okay?” She smiled before turning back to the house and letting loose a monster of a yell. “Gerard, Michael, get your asses outside and help move this poor young man in!”

Frank decided he could learn to like her.

“You’ll have a room on the second floor,” She informed Frank. “The walls are soundproofed, so if you want to play music, then go for it. Trust me,” she laughs, “With two other teenage sons in the house, I’m used to loud noise all the time.”

Frank snorted. He’s sure this kind lady hadn’t meant it the way he thought of it, but that’s okay. She seemed encouraged by almost breaking a smile from him.

Just as she was going to say something else, two boys wandered out of the house and towards their mother. These had to be Frank’s new… brothers. He cringed at the word. One was tall and lanky, straightironed brown hair and a grey beanie hat, glasses perched dangerously at the end of his nose. He was wearing an Anthrax shirt, which Frank decided was definitely cool. The other brother looked older, his long, greasy black hair falling around his face. He had a smear of paint on his cheek the same colour as his eyes, his body type hidden by a ridiculously baggy sweatshirt. Frank supposed he could learn to get along with them. “Frank, this is Gerard and Mikey.” Donna Way smiled again. “I hope you get along with them better than they get along with eachother.”

Frank made a noncommittal noise, picking up the handle of a rolling suitcase with one hand and grunting as the weight hit his shoulder. “Can he speak?” Mikey asked, straight faced. Gerard, at least, had the pretense to look shocked at his brother for being so straightforward.

“Ti odio così tanto,” Frank felt the insult roll off his tongue. “Of course I can speak.”

“Oh… Okay. Cool.” Mikey nodded, grabbing a box and moving to bring it inside. Gerard grabbed two suitcases and rolled them behind him, following his brother wordlessly. Frank followed them in, curiosity taking over from the hate that had coursed through his veins as he entered the house where he would spend his next two years.

It wasn’t anything special, normal and plain as it had appeared from the outside, if not a little dark. The wallpaper was a washed-out maroon, the flooring mahogany with throw rugs scattered here and there. The pictures on the wall depicted Donna’s sons growing up – Gerard always the pudgier of the two, Mikey never seeming to have any extra weight. He snorted – Maybe Gerard ate all his brother’s food.

He was led up a staircase, down a hallway, and into a room, where his suitcases and box were dumped unceremoniously on the floor. “This’ll be yours.” Mikey said. “My room’s at the end of the hall, Mom’s room is downstairs, and Gerard lives in the basement like some sort of creep.”

“I’m not a creep!” Gerard protested. “I have more space down there!”

Frank rolled his eyes as the two bickered. “Si prega, affanculo.” He said, catching their attention. “Please, get the fuck out. I have the worst headache and your yelling asses aren’t helping.”

“Okay, yeah, sorry,” Gerard nodded, leaving the room almost as fast as he’d come in. “I’ll bring up the last few boxes.”

Mikey, however, stayed. “You gonna need any help?” He asked.

“Affanculo.” Frank repeated.

“I’m not dumb, I know you’re just trying to fuck with me.” Mikey rolled his eyes, his face remaining otherwise expressionless. “I’ll be at the end of the hall if you do decide you need help.”

Frank sighed loudly as he was finally left alone. He sat on the edge of his new Queen sized bed, debating what to do first. He’d only changed rooms in his house once, when he was 12 and crazy bored, but redecorating a smaller room would be like torture. He opened all the boxes first, like a sensible human definitely wouldn’t do, finding his favorite stiletto knife to open the tape on the others that Gerard brought up. Gerard eyed the knife but said nothing, leaving the room again. Frank liked that, he decided. At least Gerard knew not to fuck with him.

He found his bedsheets and comforter in one box, pillows stuffed in the cracks of all the others. He pulled out the burgundy sheets, shaking the fitted one and attempting to get it on his bed singlehandedly. With one arm in a sling, most things were impossible. “Fanculo!” He yelled. “Fuck this stupid fucking sheet and it’s stupid fucking elastic, I swear to God I-“

“Frank?” Donna was in the doorway, hand on her hip, greying brunette hair back in a bun. “Need help, sweetheart?”

He hated to admit it, but he hung his head in defeat. “I can’t do anything with only one arm,” he admitted, giving in and speaking in English. “This is stupid – Getting shot isn’t worth it.”

Donna just laughed, taking the sheet from him and fitting it to the bed easily, then making a grab for the next sheet, laying it out too. She wordlessly helped make his bed as he tried to use his one good hand to stuff pillows into pillowcases, failing miserably 90% of the time. Once he had managed to get one pillow done, Donna had his black and grey quilt on the bed and the other two pillows in their cases. “It’s okay to need help sometimes,” She smiled, but Frank knew that was less than strictly true. As the Don of the Iero faction, he shouldn’t need help, except maybe from Giuseppe. He should be at his house, holding meetings and getting ready to marry Jamia, not across the state struggling to make his bed like a toddler. “Dinner’ll be in about an hour, so get what you can done and I or one of the boys will help you after, okay?” She left the room before he could respond with some sort of snarky comeback, which was probably better for both of them. He’d been in her house for a grand total of 45 minutes and was pretty sure his foster brothers hated him.

Not that he cared or anything.

He set to work putting clothes in a bureau that leaned up against the far wall, stacking shirts, jeans, suits, underwear… Some of his clothes were probably just as expensive as the house he now lived in, to be completely honest, but he was keeping to the secret mission mentality. The first two items on his mission list were to put together his new life and to eat dinner without giving up that he was maybe one of the most powerful men in Jersey, not that anyone would believe a punk 16 year old kid with a lip ring was a mafia godfather.

He couldn’t fold any of the clothes that fell unfolded while he was putting them away, so he just closed his eyes and cringed as he shoved them into the proper drawer. He’d deal with it later. He managed to find the knives and throwing stars Giuseppe had promised, smiling at them like old friends when he unpacked them. He’d have to find a place to put them, yes, but he felt instantly more at-ease once a pocket knife was tucked into his belt, and that easiness, that sense of belonging, was what Frank wouldn’t admit he wanted. 

He just wanted to go back to his own house, dammit.

He’d finished unpacking his clothes and had moved on to the other things in the boxes. Posters, stereo system and CD’s, his rosary and bible, a second bible… wait. Frank grinned as he opened the second, lighter bible to find it hollowed out, his favorite semiautomatic 9 mm inside. Giuseppe had missed one! He almost whooped with joy, treasuring the feeling of his old friend in his hands. It was ridiculous to have missed it this much – It had been a total of two days since he’d held a gun. It had been two days since he’d dead-on gunned down at least 14 Lucchese men. It had been two days since…

Since his father was shot.

Emotion swept over Frank, knocking him to the floor. He cried out in pain as he hit, the impact jostling his healing arm and hitting a nerve in his leg. None of this was working, none of this was going right. There was a hollow emptiness inside Frank’s chest, an ache that made physical tears come to his eyes that he angrily wiped away. He was the Don, he didn’t cry.

But, maybe even Dons let loose a few tears when their fathers died and their life was turned upside down. He’d never had a healthy relationship with his father, really. It was always “Yes, sir,” and “Yes, Don,” and going to learn to shoot and taking over compounds. He’d shot his first pigeon at 8. The first raid he’d ever been on, he was 11. He shot his first rival mafia member at 13. His favorite memory was when his father took him to the back of the yard and they had contests to see who could shoot the most ducks, and then had brought them inside to be prepared for all the members of their family. In no way had his life been normal, but it had been his and at least he understood it.

_Yes,_ he decided. _Maybe Dons do cry occasionally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my grandmere for making me cookies while I contemplate making Frank and Gerard adopted brothers for more angst  
> Happy birthday to my little brother Zack! He's turning 11 today. :)  
> Follow me on twitter @grin_reaper6, if you wanna
> 
> ~xoxodaisukirose

**Author's Note:**

> I do not speak Italian, so, as always, if it's wrong then it's Google's fault. If you happen to speak Italian and you catch a mistake in my botched attempt at using the language, please do tell me! I'll fix it immediately.  
> I love you all! Comments and kudos are the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins.  
> Stay safe,  
> ~xoxodaisukirose


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